


Better Than a Pillow Mint

by CloudAtlas



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Future Clint/Bucky/Nat, Handcuffs, Multi, Past Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanov, poor communication skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:14:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27249370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: Based off this from Texts From Last Night:(317): Don't be alarmed when you come home and see a guy handcuffed to your bed. His name is James. I'll uncuff him when I get home.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 27
Kudos: 169
Collections: Winterwidowhawk Fest





	Better Than a Pillow Mint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts).



> Again, this was written for some old be_compromised Promptathon prompt. However, I remember that this one was the above TFLN message and it was **inkvoices** that requested it. Can't remember when and where though. :P
> 
> Beta'd by **alistra**.

Clint’s fumbling with the door of his building when the text comes through.

He’s expecting it to be a reminder about milk – which, shit, he should have bought milk – but it turns out to be… really not that. It’s not that _at all_. In fact, it’s so very much Not That that he stands like a dumbass in the doorway for a good thirty seconds just staring at his phone screen.

**Natasha [15:17]**  
Don't be alarmed when you come home and see a guy handcuffed to your bed. His name is James. I'll uncuff him when I get home.

Looks like Drunk Clint has got Sober Clint into trouble again.

But then, as far as Clint knows, he doesn’t know anyone called James and, apart from a vague memory of telling Natasha he was kinda into her ex Bucky two nights ago, he cannot think of anything he said that would result in someone being cuffed to his bed. Also: what the fuck do you do when you know there’s going to be a stranger handcuffed to your bed? Offer them coffee? Get them a blanket?

Oh God. What if they’re naked? He’s not sure Natasha would be that mean, but you never know.

Clint takes a deep breath. He’s dealt with weirder things than this. Hell, he’s _done_ weirder things than this. There was the thing with the goat and the tux and his brother’s roof party.

“Hello?”

Clint’s never once been nervous to enter his own home. Or _this_ home, to be more accurate; this home that he actually owns. His childhood home was another thing entirely.

“Hey, Barton.”

A resigned and _very familiar_ voice comes from his bedroom which – no. No fucking way. Natasha wouldn’t be _that_ mean. Also, his name isn’t James. What the fuck?

“What the hell,” Clint demands, crashing through his bedroom door, “are _you_ doing here?”

Bucky Barnes, Natasha's unfairly gorgeous ex, is handcuffed to Clint’s bed. Shirtless. Clint tries not to stare at his toned chest, or his beautiful tattoo that Clint’s only not jealous of because _needles_ , or the way his dark jeans cling to his thighs. Nope. Clint doesn’t look at any of that. Instead, he focusses on Bucky’s unfairly pretty eyes and his killer cheekbones. Because obviously that’s _way better_.

“Natasha cuffed me here,” Bucky says drolly, eyebrow arched.

“But your name’s _Bucky_ , not James.”

Clint is indignant. Natasha likes playing games, sure, but she’s not usually an out and out liar.

Bucky’s expression slides from embarrassed confusion into something Clint is intimately familiar with; namely the _are you kidding me with this shit?_ look.

“My nickname is Bucky,” he replies slowly, as if talking to a child. “Short for Buchanan, which is my middle name because my mom thought obscure presidents were a great source of kid’s names.”

Clint’s confusion must be clear as day, because Bucky sighs.

“James Buchanan was the fifteenth president of the US.”

“Your name is James Buchanan.”

“Barnes.”

“What?”

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Bucky says. “Bucky for short.”

It’s such a stupid fucking name that Clint decides to bypass the information entirely for now.

“But why are you _cuffed to my bed?_ ” Clint demands. That really should have been his first question but it’s too late now.

Bucky, against all logic, blushes, which sends Clint’s insides cartwheeling in mortification because if Natasha has _actually told Bucky_ what Drunk Clint said two days ago, he’s not sure he’ll ever recover. It’s bad enough that Clint finds Bucky hot – which took a while to admit because, well, Clint had never actually found a guy hot before? So that was a revelation – but for the guy to be his girlfriend’s ex, and for him to tell her about his crush while drunk? Well, that’s just complicated and terrible. If Natasha had actually passed on this information, Clint might just have to change his name and move to Panama.

“Oh God, she told you.”

His voice is almost entirely without inflection. Fuck, he can’t even run out of the room because it’s _his room_ and he’d have to come back eventually to sleep – in the same bed Bucky is currently handcuffed to. He sits down heavily on the bed instead, right by Bucky’s feet and Bucky, who’s been avoiding his eyes – probably out of embarrassment on Clint’s behalf – looks up, though it it’s the movement or what he said that caused it, Clint can’t tell.

“What? Told me – what does she have to tell me?”

Ice fills Clint’s stomach. That’s not the tone of someone trying desperately to let someone else down gently. That’s straight up confusion. Which means Natasha hasn’t told Bucky anything but, by saying that, Clint _definitely has_.

“I – ”

He shuts his mouth to save himself further embarrassment.

They stare at each other for a moment and then, for once in his life, Clint decides to just bite the bullet and face the awkwardness head on. Taking a deep breath, he asks, “Bucky, why did Natasha cuff you to my bed?”

They stare at each other some more. God, but Bucky has pretty eyes.

“Okay,” Bucky says, looking embarrassed as he breaks eye contact. “I might have got drunk about two weeks ago and admitted to Natasha that I’d… I’m not over her.” Clint thinks he should feel jealous about this, but he finds he doesn’t. Bucky gives him a wary glance and then continues when it’s clear Clint’s not angry about that confession. “And then I might have got more drunk and said…” Bucky’s mouth works, like he knows the shape of the words he wants to make but can’t force the sound past his lips. “I, um, I’d.” He cringes. “I kindafindyoureallyattractivetoo?”

Clint stares at him. This is what the Blue Screen of Death must feel like.

“What?” he chokes out.

Bucky blushes more, shuffling his feet and attempting to pull himself into a more comfortable position despite the cuffs _tying him to Clint’s bed_. Can’t forget those.

“Well, I mean,” Bucky’s aiming for nonchalance now and not wholly missing. “You’ve got epic biceps.”

“Since when were you _bi_?” Clint demands. Bucky sends him a flat look which Clint ignores as a thought suddenly occurs to him.

“Wait, since when was _I_ bi?” he demands of no one, because… that’s what being attracted to Bucky means, right? Wow, that would have been a useful thing for Drunk Clint to point out to him. Fuck you, Drunk Clint.

Now Bucky just looks confused. “What?”

“Oh, um.” Clint flails a little. But then, if Bucky can be brave and tell him all this shit, the least Clint can do is return the favour. “I might have got drunk with Natasha two days ago and told her that I think you’re hot?”

Their awkward staring match has reasserted itself.

“Oh,” Bucky says after a moment. There’s a blush staining his cheeks and he looks about as off-kilter as Clint feels. He shifts a little, causing the cuffs to clink against the headboard again, as if reminding them of their presence.

“D’you think that’s why…?” Bucky rattles the cuffs intentionally this time.

“I mean, probably?” Clint says helplessly. He loves Natasha, but he doesn’t ever pretend to fully understand her. “Wait, hold on, are they buckles or keys?”

“Keys. She took them with her too.”

“I can probably…” Clint makes a vague motion that could only be interpreted as ‘lock picking’ if you’re Clint Barton, before realising that picking the locks would require him to be closer to shirtless Bucky Barnes than he currently is and… wow. That’s. Well, that’s something.

Suck it up, Barton.

Clint feels Bucky’s eyes follow him as he heads to his closet and rummages around until he finds his set of lock picks. They aren’t difficult, these cuff locks, but they’re small, and the concentration required means there’s a about three minutes where Clint’s concentrating enough to ignore the fact that Bucky smells good and that his eyes are a beautiful pale blue and that he looks like he’s been chewing his lip slightly because they’re all plump and pink. But then Bucky’s free and Clint’s still sat too close and he’s not too sure what he’s doing because his gaze is caught on Bucky’s mouth and he can’t look away.

“Thanks,” Bucky says eventually, voice quiet and rough.

“N-no problem.” Clint tears his gaze away from Bucky’s mouth.

There’s another long, awkward silence in which Clint is running over everything Bucky’s ever told him about himself when they’ve met in the past, and everything Natasha’s ever told him about her ex. Then he pointedly stops thinking about that because it’s not even remotely helpful.

“D’you… want to borrow a shirt?” Clint asks eventually. Fuck knows why Bucky was shirtless in the first place. Maybe he should be concerned about what a shirtless Bucky Barnes was doing with his girlfriend _in his bedroom_ , but he can’t quite bring himself to care too much. For one, he does trust Natasha. And also, why the fuck would he complain about shirtless Bucky Barnes?

“Please.”

Clint gets up to grab a clean tee from his drawers and then has to suppress a shiver of pleasure in seeing it cling to Bucky’s shoulders.

“Um,” he says eloquently, after staring at Bucky’s chest for maybe a beat too long, “beer?”

“I – yes,” Bucky replies, clearly changing his mind on whatever he was about to say. “Yeah, I think beer could be good.”

He trails Clint through the apartment, two steps behind and his footsteps a shuffling echo of his own, and reaches out automatically when Clint holds out the bottle of Sam Adams. He looks sort of calculating and really, unfairly attractive, and Clint sort of wishes their hands could have brushed when he was handing over the bottle but they hadn’t.

Clint’s fingers tingle like they had anyway.

“I – ” Clint starts, but this time he cuts himself off because he really has no idea what he was about to say. ‘Wanna make out’? ‘I’ve never wanted to see a guy’s dick before but fancy showing me yours’? ‘Is it weird that I’d be happy to watch you make out with my girlfriend’? No. No all those are terrible things to say. But they’re also not _lies_.

“What do you think Natasha was hoping to gain from this little stunt?” Bucky asks after the awkward silence threatens to stretch for too long.

“Knowing Natasha,” Clint says with a resigned inevitability as he leans against the counter, “probably that we’d make out and fuck and be so horny that by the time she gets home, no conversations about feelings or consequences would be required at all.”

Bucky snorts, but doesn’t even try to contradict him because Clint’s _right_. Natasha is wonderful on many, many levels, but her emotional constipation is so bad it makes _Clint_ look well adjusted.

“Well, sucks to be her because we’re totally gonna talk about this.”

Clint sighs. It figures that Bucky would be the sensible one about all this. He always struck Clint as being weirdly level-headed for someone who willingly hangs out with Steve Rogers _and_ Peggy Carter _and_ Natasha Romanov _and_ Tony Stark. Sure, he also hangs out with Sam, but Sam’s just as dumb and bull headed as Steve; he’s just much, _much_ better at hiding the fact.

“But,” there’s a clink of glass against Formica and suddenly Bucky’s boxing Clint against the counter, his hands somehow both questioning and possessive on his hips, “I reckon we can make out a little before that happens. What do you think?”

Clint stares down at him, robbed of words and breath and higher brain functions because – wow. _Wow_. He didn’t – he wasn’t expecting it to feel like this. He hadn’t expected to feel this electric. But also, Jesus –

Bucky’s eyes are really fucking blue.

The grin that steals over Bucky’s face is practically lupine and it makes something in Clint go soft and pliable which, yeah that happens with Natasha sometimes but Natasha can’t _hold him down_.

“You gotta say, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, mouth close enough to Clint’s own to feel his breath ghost over his lips. He presses a kiss, feather light, high on Clint’s cheekbone. “You wanna make out?”

“Yeah,” Clint manages. “Yeah, I totally wanna make out.”

“Good,” Bucky breathes out before sliding his mouth over Clint’s.


End file.
